


Take it or leave it

by amelie_drinking_tea



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-20
Updated: 2014-06-20
Packaged: 2018-02-05 11:45:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1817362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amelie_drinking_tea/pseuds/amelie_drinking_tea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First time Grantaire saw Enjolras, he was like "Yeah, he's pretty". But life had fucked him over so many times (and not only relationship-wise, mind you), that that had meant absolutely nothing to him.<br/>Then he heard him speak. He had the blaze in his eyes, the naïve blaze of the well-intended privileged. It was almost poetic. And he felt withdrawn somehow, not to Enjolras himself, but to that light, that untouchable brilliancy, only a soul that eloquent could attain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take it or leave it

First time Grantaire saw Enjolras, he was like "Yeah, he's pretty". But life had fucked him over so many times (and not only relationship-wise, mind you), that that had meant absolutely nothing to him.

Then he heard him speak. He had the blaze in his eyes, the naïve blaze of the well-intended privileged. It was almost poetic. And he felt withdrawn somehow, not to Enjolras himself, but to that light, that untouchable brilliancy, only a soul that eloquent could attain.

It made him more and more depressed as time went by. He wasn't in love. And no, he wasn't in denial of his love. Once you grow up, really grow up (and that has absolutely nothing to do with how old you are), you kinda get over the whole romantic scenario.

For good.

Grantaire went on with his life, thinking from time to time, that, yeah, sure, it'd be nice to hold someone close, kiss someone passionately. To be reminded that, yes, you are definitely worth the attention of one particular person, who'd rather have you than anyone else.

Cliché overdose driven by the romance-obsessed contemporary media.

So he’d be careful. "Watch it, have a small dosage of cliché, only, Grantaire". Before bed. Every twelve hours, if needed. It won’t kill you.

It won’t kill you fast, anyway.

And it won’t keep you from getting up every day and doing what you got to do. The habit doesn't keep you from living, not really. He looked up from his glass to Enjolras one particular evening, careful not to stare, careful not to display himself like a lover might, hypnotized by his delirious, almost lustful words of change.

(Good change, not the kind when you wake up in the middle of the night, sit on your bed and realize everything is straight up fucked and you want to fall off the face of the Earth).

Enjolras looked back for a second, not glaring, not smiling, but not indifferent either. He was just looking, as you look around when you’re searching for something you don’t really need, but want to make sure is there, anyway. Breath holding, sweaty hands, no, that didn't happen to Grantaire when he got a glimpse of those eyes.

He took a sip of his wine. In a faraway land, where people don't feel dissatisfied... No, wait. Everybody is dissatisfied, even in make-believe fairy tale land. Start over, Grantaire. In a faraway land, where people can cope with inexplicable dissatisfaction in a relatively healthy way, he could walk up to him and say: "Get the fuck out of my sight before I go blind."

You're breaking through me. I’m falling off the track, and I can't go back.

In the real world, where all he had to protect himself and keep some control over his brain was a shit ton of sarcasm, well, mental well-being wasn't an option.

He kept on waking up, day after day, some mornings better than others, some great nights, dragging everyone down with him, without knowing.

Ok, he had some vague awareness of it.

A part of him insisted he had definitely not that kind of control over anyone. And another tiny part of him wished he did. Even if only to shake the certainty off their leader for a second.

Shake the certainty off those eyes, because certainty was an offensive concept to him.

Quiet anger, they say, is the dangerous kind of anger.

It will make you rotten, and rotten he felt. His quiet anger clashing with Enjolras' noisy one. Crushing the weaker side.

Bang, bang, bang. You're dead.

At home, he'd drown in the sociably acceptable kinds of drugs. If someone called, he'd answer cheerfully. If someone asked, he was fine.

There was no real reason, really, for feeling so out of place, so disconnected. There couldn't be. The awareness of it didn’t make it hurt any less, though. "Enough with the lying and acting tough", he'd tell himself as he picked up the phone.

But as he answered, as he heard familiar voices on the receiving end, he was suddenly alright. No trace of drunkenness in his voice, no trace of regret in his heart.

If Enjolras had been the one calling, he could spit on his face (metaphorically) and break down. Just to see how he'd react. But Enjolras never called him. Why would he? The priest of the ideal couldn't be spat upon.

His friends would silently judge him every time he opened his mouth to say Enjolras was delusional. Maybe because they knew where he was coming from. The drunken haze, that insensible dark place, that heavy stone he could not lift. “You're the delusional one, Grantaire. Know your place.” They’d silently say.

Perhaps because they too had the need to hold on to it.

Better times to come.

So he'd lose his faith again and again, playing his part as expected, watching those undoubtful lips moving to speak of the new world about to dawn.

What did he know about the common folk’s motivations and struggles? He asked Enjolras once, not able to contain himself.

Their leader would never direct his answers to him, always turning to the crowd to make sure he was getting his point across the whole group.

He was also dissatisfied, he'd tell the others, not looking at Grantaire once. He too, felt in his veins the injustice of those times.

He then proceeded to list a thousand reasons why he understood them.

"Yet you can't even look me in the eye, because I’m common." Grantaire wanted to say.

Instead he just snorted at Enjolras' good intentions.

Healthier than snorting something else, wasn't it?

He'd wake up in the morning and look out the window, and think about Enjolras' beliefs. And his throat would burn, his eyes would water, and his brush would paint.

The pain of an entire generation, suffocating him.

Why did he have to feel so trapped? Why couldn't he accept that change was possible? Why couldn’t he just float away in a beam of light?

You know why, Grantaire.

Change opens up to the possibility of freedom.

And you can never be free.

You're damaged goods.

He'd paint through his blurred vision, and people would ask him, kind-heartedly, if he'd done it while drinking. He might as well have.

"You're good for nothing, fool." Was one of the few things Enjolras's ever said to him.

He'd felt strangely pleased. Being a fool doesn't equal being wrong, Enjolras. Doesn't equal being hopeless.

He could live with that.

Maybe that was the reason why he kept coming back.

Coming back to be reassured he was lost. To be sure he was in control, even if only of his own twisted self.

Know thyself. A fool.

The ideal can never be reached. The sense of utter loneliness in his clouded little world was Enjolras' fault, Grantaire knew that much. Not his fault, as a person, obviously. He was beyond that kind of obsession towards him. But the ideal personifying, oh yeah, that was his fault.

And you only live once, they say.

And whether you shout at the crowd, or you shout at the person shouting at the crowd, you can never let go of that feeling of sadness, of being all wrong inside.

Grantaire couldn't, anyway.

And every time he lifted up his eyes and met Enjolras', he knew that that was all he'd ever have.

The shadow of a connection.

Take it or leave it, R.

 

**Author's Note:**

> English is not my first language, I'd appreciate any feedback you might have to help me improve my writing. : )
> 
> This fic was inspired by the song "Take it or leave it" (The Strokes).


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